


Harry Potter and the Demon Owl

by Angeluscaligo



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Abusive Dursley Family (Harry Potter), Bored Prince of Hell Stolas, Dark Harry Potter, Depressed Minerva McGonagall, Dursley Family Dies (Harry Potter), Harry is being tutored by Stolas the Demon Owl, Manipulative Albus Dumbledore, Other, Prince Stolas - Freeform, Princes Of Hell, Stolas is going to be a surprisingly good parent, Stolas is very very veeery bored, The Demon Owl
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-10
Updated: 2021-02-08
Packaged: 2021-03-10 01:29:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,733
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27996066
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Angeluscaligo/pseuds/Angeluscaligo
Summary: July 31th 1990, Privet Drive 4 is blown up by a magical explosion and Harry is declared dead by the Ministry after a few months of fruitless searching. However, Harry is found the day after by Prince Stolas, one of the Demon Lords of Hell. Bored with the millenia of useless feuds and the unchanging nature of Hell, Stolas decides that here is an opportunity to finally solve his centuries long boredom.But how will Harry end up? What will this do to him? And most importantly, what will the Wizarding World do when their Saviour re-appears a year later, right in time for the start of his tenure at Hogwarts?Harry and Stolas have plans - and they aren't telling anyone. Yet.
Comments: 4
Kudos: 49





	1. Chapter I - A Discovery

The last thing that the Dursley family saw, before their lives came to an abrupt end, was a bright burning light. And then their house exploded across the neighbourhood, in a bright flash of light that could be seen up to five miles further. As the green flames burned through whatever fuel was left to make them flare up, the neighbours on all sides swiftly evacuated their homes – though no damage was later reported to any of the surrounding homes. No, indeed, all that had been damaged was located within the square plot of land that had been the Dursleys'.

Newspapers mentioned the gas explosion only briefly, making mention of suspected fireworks being responsible for the emerald green flames. Even when the plot of land was sold off a year later and a new house was erected by a new family who knew nothing of what happened, it was always remembered by those who had witnesses the event that the flames had looked very much like skulls. And it was always remarked upon just how poorly vegetation did on the scorched earth of the plot. Grass remained a sickly yellow, no matter how many times it was fertilized, watered or re-seeded. The same was through for any tree, bush, herb or vegetable grown. Even the new inhabitants regularly complained of feeling sickly in their new home, most notably always around July 31th – when the explosion had occurred.

The neighbourhood gossip mill went on relentlessly – and soon, the old stories of suspected abuse or delinquency of an obscure nephew of the Dursleys, who lived with them, were all forgotten in favour for the new gossip around the suspicion that Mrs Figg's hair wasn't really a natural black.

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The last thing Harry remembered of that day was Dudley tripping him up as he was cooking, causing the pan with bacon in his hands to spill unto the open-flame stove-top. Uncle Vernon swore so badly that angels would've barred him from Heaven for that offense alone, while Aunt Petunia began screeching like a veritable banshee as a flame erupted from the stove-top and Dudley pissed his pants when the flame almost singed off his eyebrows.

Then the blows began, after Petunia threw a wet dish-towel over the stove-top and began calling the firefighters. Vernon, never having had a light hand when punishing Harry for any of his bouts of 'freakishness', and Dudley, never having pulled back his punches when 'Harry-hunting', let loose all their inhibitions like never before. As far as Harry could remember, he had heard the breaking of ribs – with sharp pains as the broken ribs punctured a lung, accompanied by an avalanche of pain across every surface the Dursleys could pummel.

Then he had felt his insides burn up, causing him to finally yell as hard as he could – before it all went black, but not before a light shone bright enough to hurt his eyes right through his closed eyelids. When he awoke, he was all alone, hurting, bleeding, gasping for breath. It took hours before he could push down enough pain to get up and take stock of his surroundings. It had been a beach the Dursleys had visited once, when they couldn't get rid of him with Mrs Figg and had to take him along. But he blacked out before he could really move along...

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When news of the 'gas explosion' reached Snape's ears, he was in a Ministry meeting with Albus and Minerva. As it had been a standard Curriculum Assessment – a fancy way of the Ministry to say they didn't trust Dumbledore not to take reigns of Hogwarts' students for some nefarious purposes – none of the participants had bothered to Silence the room. So when the usual bustle outside the door suddenly began to increase exponentially in a matter of minutes, Severus knew something had happened. Albus' merry twinkle in the eye slowly faded as certain words began filtering through the ruckus. And when the words 'Surrey' and 'explosion' were picked up, a dark seed of cold anxiety filled the pit in Severus' stomach. Even Dumbledore began to fidget anxiously.

Then the door opened, a little mouse of a Witch, anxious and sweating, crept in and beelined straight to the Minister. And when Fudge listened to the news she whispered in his ear, he became white as a sheet before yelling in pure panicked falsetto tones. “WHAT DO YOU MEAN, HARRY POTTER'S HOUSE HAS BLOWN UP?” Severus, Albus and Minerva were out the door before the Minister even realized they'd gotten up.

The devastation was... absolute. Not a shred of the basic structure remained, except a few concrete pillars, and the tiles that had been concluded to've been located directly underneath the centre of the explosion. When the blueprints of the building had been recovered in a matter of minutes – funny that, Snape thought bitterly – the centre had been calculated to've been just besides the stairs to the first floor, next to the door of a small cupboard worked into the stairs.

What was recovered from the Dursleys was... limited. Evidently they'd been in the centre of the blast – and their collected remains just showed how exceedingly powerful they blast had been. From the Potter boy, nothing was found. And damned if that didn't, somehow, please a certain dark part of Snape's already condemned soul. But then Lilly's voice sounded in his head, neatly partitioned off from his main faculties – yet stubborn enough to make him feel guilt. A promise from long ago. “Swear to me, Severus, swear to me you'll always watch over him. That you'll keep him safe.” And he had – an Unbreakable Vow. And he had failed – yet wasn't dead. So the brat still lived – somehow. But where was he then?

Evidence concluded that magic was the culprit. An unfortunate case of accidental magic gone rogue. Apparently the force of the explosion had damaged some of the sensors the Ministry used to track accidental magic and had thrown half of their entire system into disarray. Repairs and re-syncing would take months, if not years. Then came the questions – Had it been an accident? Or was it an attempt at the boy's life? If so, who had done?

Further testing of the magical residue was impossible, however – the magic blast had erased nigh any and all magic that might've been present before it. Scant traces of wards were found, heavily degraded – apparently hadn't been active for years, a revelation that had made Albus exceedingly worried. There were traces of Apparition, but no certainty if they'd been from before or after the blast.

Then there'd been the traces of Dark magic – leading to an avenue of a possible Death-eater attack. Surely a spoiled child wouldn't exude Dark magic. Minerva had her doubts, however, remarking coldly that the Dursleys hadn't seemed the most friendly of Muggles towards anything 'abnormal'. Albus tried to jest away the seriousness of Minerva's claim, but it was apparent the Ministry's people weren't as convinced as Albus was...

When Severus got back to Spinner's End, ready to take a double shot of spirits, his eye fell on the Evening Edition of the Prophet, which had been delivered by post hours before. And his double shot soon became half a bottle of whiskey.

“Harry Potter missing – presumed killed.” And it had been written by Skeeter – of course. That damned leech would bleed dry any story such as this, no matter the veracity of her claims. And her sycophantic fans would lap up every morsel she threw their way as they were starving for life. Sleep did not come that night – not any night after, for several months...

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Minerva didn't see Albus for three months – his visits to the castle only occurring when the wards needed maintenance or when came to rest at his quarters. Severus became equally absent, though he at least feigned to attend to his duties – and occasionally succeeding at them. The whole Wizarding community had gone in shock – Aurors on every street-corners, posters on every bulletin-board. The radio-station kept re-rolling their Ministry-approved plea for anyone to come forward if they knew about the Boy-Who-Lived's whereabouts. Panic became an undercurrent for every street-corner conversation, and tensions rose across every stratum of society.

And through it all, Minerva did her duties as Head of Gryffindor and as Deputy Headmistress. Letters were sent, candidates were interviewed for Defence against the Dark Arts, supplies were ordered for the coming year, … Everyday was filled with myriad tasks – she liked to see it as a hydra of sorts, where two tasks replaced the room made by clearing another task. She was busy, exhausted and had no attention to spare. But when she laid down on her mattress every night, the thoughts came unbidden and untiring. Each night she fell into deeper despair as she imagined the certainty of Potter's death become increasingly greater and greater with passing day...

On the last day of August, she broke down. When Severus came to see her, he found only a cat – a stubborn cat that refused to turn back into the courageous woman he knew to lead a House and a School at the same time when need be. He coaxed her, bribed her, gave her pets – and still she refused. She only turned back when Albus returned on Severus' behalf, together with the other professors present. And then she cried, for hours on end. And they let her.

Then came the hardest blow off all, when Harry Potter was declared as “being most probably death” by the Prophet, in a mournful report as ordained by the Ministry. A vigil was held for the boy at the Starting Feast the day after...

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The thing about being a Prince of Hell is that it's mundanely boring after a few hundred years. Feuds are fought and decided in the first hundred years, made permanent after the first two centuries, and just jadedly acted upon after the next three centuries. After eight centuries, it's just... dull. So Stolas, Prince of Hell, Commander of the Twenty-Sixth Legion of the Eight Circle, Vazal of Duke Barbatos, Vazal of King Paimon, Ruler of Abyssal Court of the North-Easterly Reach of King Paimon's Empire, took to wandering Earth on his days off. Employment was... dull. Feuds become boring after a while and no one dared even defy his claim to King Paimon's plot of land he'd been assigned to. After all, who would dare challenge a demon who once beheaded an Angel that had implied philosophy was a waste of time? No one, that's who. Not worth the ire, was unanimously agreed among lesser imps...

Stolas liked British weather, with its mood swings, sudden rains, crisp fogs, … Hell had only one weather – scorchingly hot and dry. No wind, no rain, not even a single brimstone sparkle – nothing. Truly, lava rivers lose their appeal after a millennia or two. It was all... It was just so... Well, absolutely boringly droll... And Stolas vehemently refused to go to the freezing cold of the Ninth Circle for a change of climate. He might've chosen an owl as his go-to form, but he simply wasn't build for cold weather – he wasn't. Ah, the downside of being unable to generate one's own body-heat, he mused, as he wandered the stormy beach. He was so positively enraptured by the crashing of the turbulent waves, the roaring of the baleful ocean, that he almost stepped on the small form that lay prone before him – almost.

Now, Stolas doesn't usually care about humans, no matter their age – and he was tempted to throw the child to the mercy of the waves as an offering to his Lords. It never fails to stay on their good side, after all. With the child in his arms, he was merely contemplating his next travelling destination and was about to throw the child in a particularly nasty wave when...

He saw it. Infinitely subtle, on the child's soul. Three black marks, like leeches to a healthy fish. Sins – three Grand Sins. And their unmistakeable scent had him salivating – they were murders. No, not murders – sacrifices. The child had claimed three lives – for a wish? Sensing the Sins, Stolas got a good image of their intended purpose. It all but screamed “protect me”. And the memories wound about them gave a good reason why – abuse. Starvation, beatings, sheer unadulterated hatred. Those souls, even the youngest soul, had long been destined for Hell, to be 'educated' before their eventual return into the Cycle.

Stolas' mind whirled, calculated – anticipated. With a child like this, he could have fun – for a century at most, but still... Fun – no more boring feuds, no more boring meetings. No, instead he would have this child for himself – educate the mortal plaything, hone its senses, sent it out on errands to claim Sinners and seduce Saints into Falling. Yes, Solas smiled a most wicked smile, his smooth beak scenting the mortal's hair and wounds – this would be... fun.

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A year came and went, gone with the winds of time, into the past so that the present can happen again, but differently. The world simple moved on. The panic of Potter's death has been subdued, public vigils and commemorations had been held to give the Ministry's citizens a peace of mind, a way to process their grief at the death of their Saviour.

Severus had just risen from his short night of rest, walking through the doors of the Great Hall on his way to have breakfast with Minerva. It would be a an hour before she'd rise, and Severus used this quiet moment for his daily ritual of reading the Prophet, Potions Weekly and Witches Weekly – he wasn't proud of the last one, but it provided a valuable insight into the way the mind of pubescent young women worked. His mental ramblings were cut rather abrupt, however, when he – almost – tripped over the prone body of a young child.

And he thrice cursed his good luck when it turned out to be the Potter spawn. “Oh, bugger...”


	2. Chapter II - A Meeting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Meetings are held, between different parties.

Sometimes the words 'panic' and 'relief' are too soft for their desired usage. Luckily, the addition of swear words usually aid in resolving this problem. Expletives were... uttered. Profusely. Repeatedly. Mainly by Minerva. By the time the boy was transported to Saint Mungo's, Severus was sure he could now fluently curse alongside her in the future. He give a wry smile, projecting the possible reactions of the thunderheads in his classes should he ever use. Not that he would – his usual sneers were often enough – he hoped. Still, couldn't hurt to try – someday.

Albus oversaw the medical procedures the Healers were performing over the boy, seeing how he was Harry's Magical Guardian. That had made Severus do a mental flip as he processed this. How was Albus, and not the mutt, the Potter brat's Magical Guardian? Severus had been there when Lilly had ratified the legal documents, using Gringotts' services. He filed it away for later.

Hours went by, before the Healers stopped their investigations and the results were, surprisingly, positive – though not by much, considering the medical history they'd uncovered.

“...pretty sure our rituals can't lie, Sir Dumbledore. There's irrefutable evidence of consistent malnutrition, vitamin deficiencies, clear indications of parental abuse. At best, Mr Potter was a rowdy kid with brittle bones – which he evidently is not. The bones shew calcium deficits across the years, starting the moment he was clearly in custody of his Muggle Guardians. The results are similar across the board – we have no choice but report this to the Board and to the Ministry. The missive has already been sent.”

Severus' mind reeled with the implications, and he found himself having to Occlude heavily to control his conflicting emotions. “Still, the current prognosis is promising. His vitamin deficiencies have been addressed, clearly – though the damage from before is still lingering in a decreased functionality of the abdominal absorption rates and kidneys. The liver is scarred from repeated beating directly atop it, but the scarring his healed partially already – no doubt a natural process, aided by his magical core. The calcium deficiency is not fully addressed, but our rituals show he has evidently been absorbing enough calcium in the past year to offset the worst consequences. His bones, though still prone to breaking by falls from small heights, should no longer break from being punched. But undue stress by compression, by for example falling or stumbling, can still cause it to break – though we suspect the worst he'll have are parallel fractures instead of lateral breakages across the bone.”

“We recommend a weekly Skele-Grog therapy, one part Grog per five parts water, one half litre every Saturday so the boy can rest throughout the next two days for nominal effect. Later today, we're gonna manually reset some of the malformed bones and fully regrow the bones in his hands, feet and head, one by one. These areas have been most affected by the skeletal trauma, no doubt by a hard-wooden or soft metal rod – we're not sure which. We also recommend intense physical therapy for the next six months, to help strengthen the muscles around the regrown bones and improve his overall control. Then there will also be a month long sustenance therapy, utilizing Maxi-Moxi Nutrient Potions and a clearly defined diet leaning mostly on vegetarian and pisceterian recipes. The diet must be done for at least a full year for the best effects to be had, Sir Dumbledore. Do not deviate from it, no matter the boy's wishes – unless allergies become apparent. We'll sent a revised diet in that case.”

“There will also be a list of activities in which his participation will be limited or forbidden. These will mostly be activities such as Quidditch and Duelling – though heavens know who'd learn an eleven year old how to duel. Still, the point stands. He must exercise regularly, eat well, follow the therapies subscribed and we also recommend a Mind Healer for the trauma no doubt sustained by the abuse. Now, Sir Dumbledore, I kindly request you leave my patient so we can prepare the necessary procedures.”

Albus' customary twinkle in the eye was truly absent now – granted, it hadn't really returned since Harry's disappearance. And Severus knew the old codger was brewing up a new plan for the Potter brat. Albus had never been subtle with his scheming – even if he thought he was subtle at all.

For the next few days, Severus stayed at St. Mungo's whenever he could. Officially, he acted in Albus' stead, who was busy doing damage-control in the Ministry. The Prophet had early on gotten wind of Harry's return and condition – they somehow even had gotten a hold of the brat's medical history. And they had plastered it all on a ten-page spread with a big front-page. Damned leeches, he thought bitterly, re-reading his Potions Weekly for the nth time...

Overall, the Medi-Witches and Healers told Severus, the procedures went as optimal as hoped – though they'd be keeping the brat in a medical coma for a week to give his body the chance to properly process the changes they'd made. No doubt the child's first days awake would be painful and disorienting.

It was nearing the end of August when Potter finally awoke, suddenly sitting straight as a rod in his bed when Severus next looked up from the Potions Thesis from one of his Apprentices he was currently grading. “Well, Potter, have you decided to finally grace the world again with your waking presence?” Severus drawled, a sneer on his face and a deep loathing in his words. The brat didn't respond, merely turned his head to look straight at him with bleary eyes before he spoke in the softest voice which Severus was barely able to understand from his position.

“My mother told me to say she forgives you, Severus.” At the words, the quill in Severus' left hand snapped in two and before he had locked his baleful eyes with those of the Potter brat, he was down on the bed again, passed out from the effort. “Damnit, Albus, why me?” The Thesis didn't get graded for another week.

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When the boy woke next, it seemed he had no interest in answering any of Albus' questions. “Now, Harry, my boy, where have you been this past year? We've all been very worried about you.” Silence. Albus looked at Severus, who'd never told the old man that the boy had woken up and spoken a week before. No matter how often the question was repeated, no answer was given. Not even when the child was presented with some writing utensils, when the Healers believed he might be suffering from trauma-induced aphasia – basically, they considered him being mute as a result of whatever happened in the past year or years...

No response were made by the child, until Albus left the hospital for his usual business in the Wizengamot. Only Severus and the Potter brat were left in the room. Potter turned his head to the closing door, carefully listening to the footfalls of the staff dying away. After a few minutes of pure silence, he turned to Severus and spoke up. “Finally. I never thought the old puppet-master would leave.” Quite struck by the oddities in the child's voice, Severus chose to stay silent and kept his face neutral. Something was very definitely not correct here, he thought with no small amount of trepidation.

Throwing off the blankets, the child stood up and walked around the edges of the room, sometimes stopping to inspect something unseen. Severus hadn't forgotten the missive Potter had shared a week before and simply watched, as the brat did a full circle around the room. Waving his small hands in a lazy arc above his head, Potter let out a wave of magic strong enough to make Severus stop breathing for a few seconds.

Absolute silence followed – the usual background hum of the busy hospital all but vanished and a deadly absence of sound filled the space it left. Severus could hear his own heart beat louder than ever before. This Silencing Spell had been more powerful than any he'd ever felt before – and he had seen the Dark Lord cast it numerous times, indeed.

Then Potter faced Severus, raised his left arm with his palm up towards the ceiling and cut across it with one his nails. A trickle of blood welled up from the impossible clean cut. Severus wanted to react, but something held him in place. He'd been grounded and anticipation filled his mind. What was the brat thinking to do?

“Master, are you there?” Potter spoke, eyes turned to the ceiling – where an incredibly complex sigil began to glow. As the blood slowly began to form a bead, it fell not down, but up – towards the sigil. And the moment it made contact with the glowing lines, a silent boom filled the small space. All breath was knocked out of Severus and the ringing in his ears lingered for a few loud seconds. And then his eyes remembered to see – and what they saw was... inspiring.

The sigil had become a warp in the space above them, colours and sounds bleeding together into one synaesthetic cacophony. Colour became taste, sound became touch. It was as if a lifetime of sensations bled into each other and overwhelmed his waking senses. Somewhere in the back of his mind, his ancient instincts inherited from eons-dead reptilian fore-bearers reared their myriad heads in despair and fear. Yet, his curious mind reeled in ululation at the sight. This was... old. Aged magick. Incomprehensibly ancient – and the brat performed it like it was a simple charm.

And then the thing came through. At first, Severus thought it looked humanoid somewhat – but when the shape began to solidify in the air before the child, it became something very different indeed.

It looked, rudimentary at least, like an owl. It had the typical squat torso, the big eyes with the stout sharp beak. But it's legs were as tall as the child itself and no owl had four eyes. Its wings unfurled to show articulation like a human arm, with long fingers, each tipped with trimmed claws. A crown sat atop the head, inscribed with symbols and laid in with gems as dazzling as a summer sun. A cloak was thrown across its shoulders, with sigils and runes stitched into it. And before his mind had processed the thing before him, something in him reacted and gave him a name. “Solas.”

Solas' head turned, having heard the name whispered by Severus and put a hand on Potter's shoulder. “I heard you loud and clear, my little imp. And it seems your mortal friend knows my name as well. How quaint. I didn't think the sorcerers of this world were into demonology any more.” Severus shuddered – the rest of what he knew came back to him.

The Dark Lord's unending obsession with power, experiments with magic and rituals. Of course He would have dabbled with summoning demons if he could gain power from it. But it had never worked – why did it work now? And for the Potter brat no less!

“Ah, Severus Snape, there are many things I don't allow to be done.” Solas answered, seeing the unheard questions as if they'd been written across a blackboard in chalk. “One of those things is letting me or my brothers be summoned here. You see, I found this quaint little world a long time ago and I resolved to always keep it secret from my avarous siblings. No, not even my Lords know of this little pocket of space-time. Only I.”

Inside Severus' neatly compartmentalized mind, alarm bells were ringing – loudly. Very loudly. His reptile brain was hissing in fear and anger, his mammalian brain was chattering in anxiety and confusion, while his primate brain (read, human – supposedly) was writing down questions – many questions. People always say that shock can make your thoughts go blank – well, it can also make your thoughts go into overdrive, soft-locking your conscious decisions by an overload of information. And right now, all that Severus Snape, Master Potioneer, Lord Prince of the Wizengamot, could do was gawp with a neutral expression. And utter just a single phrase.

“Drat.”

Solas chuckled, Potter started disinterestedly at Severus and Severus... well, Severus' mind went bye-bye and all went dark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hm, I'm gonna be having fun writing Stolas' dialogue :D Also, this might, eventually, somehow, cross-over with my other HP fic, "To Survive All Else". You should go read that too, if you like Smart!Harry and Dumbledore Bashing ;)


	3. Chapter III - Worlds Apart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stolas meets with a potential ally, in a far away corner of the multiverse...

Stolas loved exploring the hidden spaces of Her Creation, though he admitted it to no one but his young ward, Harry. After placing Harry back in his world, and having contracted the mortal Severus Tobias Snape into servitude, bound by Oath and Silence, Stolas took his time before returning for an update on clever Harry's progress.

That's how he found himself wandering the alternate timelines of his native dimension, watching with great interest the numerous fates that befell his charge in alternate pockets of reality where things happened just a little bit differently. And as he explored and observed, he got an idea. A brilliant idea. A brilliantly terrifying idea. And he smiled a wicked smile – which was quite feat, concerning he had a beak. So, he carefully waded into the stream of time of beta-branch 13, subverse α-7B. Slowly sifting through the quantum metadata, he looked up the information he needed.

Ah, there it was – Harrison Jameson Potterer Junior. The Boy-Who-Lived, who permanently destroyed the Dark Lord Voldemort, née Tom Marvolo Riddle, at age 17 in Duel during a blue blood-moon. By Right of Conquest, he became Lord Slytherin, absorbed the Dark Lord's power for his own – and then was betrayed by his treasonous friends, Ronald Billius Weasley and Hermione Jean Granger, for monetary gain. Incarcerated at Azkaban, which had been emptied and reinforced with the Hundred-Souls Binding to permanently chain the new Lord to the island for eternity – which was not an exaggeration, as the child had somehow become Master of Death and effectively immortal. Chained like a dog in a permanent torture-spell, bound to his magical core, Lord Potter could never again leave Azkaban.

Or, Stolas chuckled darkly, that was what the Wixen community had thought. At midnight December 31th 1999, as the new year began on Azkaban, something occurred. An impossible moon eclipse occurred, Azkaban was sunk to the bottom of a permanent maelstrom, and Lord Death arose from the mortal shackles that had been Harry Potter's body. And like a veritable plague, Lord Death visited every household on the British Isles, Wixen or Muggle. Fifty million dead by January 7th, with eight million refugees fleeing the isles for Europe's mainland. But the Wixen could not leave. Oh no, in a perverse warping of the ritual by which he had been bound, Lord Death had bound all Wixen to the soil upon which they'd been conceived – and they could never set foot off that soil without dying. The message was clear after fifty deaths and nobody tried afterwards.

And then had begun the personal visitations, Stolas observed with a dark glee at the carnage he saw. Each Wixen received a visit from Lord Death, beginning with the eldest down to the youngest, in a neat chronological order. By the time Albus Dumbledore, having somehow evaded death till this point, finally fell from the Astronomy Tower at Hogwarts as a lifeless dessicated husk, panic had been replaced by calm acceptance, mostly. A few deviant souls resisted Fate – and found their valiant efforts folly. They all fell just the same, in the end. But when Lord Death reaped the last person recognized as mature in the eyes of Magick, he vanished from the British Isles, leaving only four hundred children of varying ages alive.

And then began a selfsame extermination in Australia. By January 14th, the Statute of Secrecy had fallen – as had Australia. Fifteen million more dead by then, and panic swept across the globe. Systematically, island after island fell under the cloak of death, each extermination taking seven days, regardless of population size. Each time, about five percent of the population was allowed to flee – before the remaining people were bound to their home-soil. And each time, the children were spared, though it made little difference by the end. Without adult supervision, most children died within the first month either way.

When midnight fell upon December 31th 2000 and the new year began, fifty-two island nations had been left bereft of all human life. By the end of 2001, a migration shift occurred of unseen proportions, as scientists figured out that, bar the first two nations, Lord Death was visiting each island nation from most populous to least populous. And they knew that eventually he'd begin his work on the mainland. And he did – striking China first. A billion people died in seven days, effectively cutting human population by a seventh. The shock was absolute and utterly total. Economies crashed, Russia and India hurried to bolster their borders and evacuate as many people as they could to the least populous countries in the world, starting with the elite. That wasn't received well.

In the end, Lord Death had little more work to do, as brothers turned on each other and wars ravaged the borders of all countries. Wixen fled as far as they could, settling a community on Antarctica, hoping to evade Death's cold embrace as long as they could. Then began the genocides, when countries turned on countries with lower populations than theirs, hoping to become the least populous in turn and evade death as long as possible. Yes, Stolas climaxed as he took in the pain, it was glorious chaos.

It took less than three years before Lord Death set foot on the last populated nation in the world – and that was were Stolas interfered, with no small amount of glee and perverse curiosity.

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Lord Death, formerly known as Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived, Vanquisher of the Dark Lord, materialized on the crisp snow of the Antarctic ice-desert. And as his bare feet sank in the virgin snow, barely making a mark, the arid freezing winds buffeted his bare body, barely protected by a black silken cloak that hung half-open from the emaciated frame. Green death-lights shone in the sunken eyes, casting an eery emerald light upon the midnight scene. It was the long dark, the six months of night, so peculiar to Antarctica's position on the pole.

He sniffed, taking in the frozen air, like a bloodhound on the lookout for his prey. And he found it easily enough. There was an enormous magickal signature to the south, near the geographical pole, with a smaller signature atop the magnetic pole. As he oriented himself, he began to stride towards his goal, his cold flesh unphased by the harsh climate of the place. After all, cold couldn't bother dead nerves and an unbeating heart. All that mattered was the Task. And the Task was the extinction of unworthy mankind – and allow for the prosperity of sinless Mensa Nova. It would be a glorious dawn age, when nature could rebalance the world and what was left of mankind would take to heart the fear of Lord Death's punishment for the wicked. The tales would be remembered – it was to be a lesson engraved on their bones. Humanity would never forget.

And thus, here he was, making his way to the last Wixen stronghold. Fools that they were, they had shirked cooperation with Muggles and believed in the superiority of their feeble magic. No, none of them would affect the Olde Magick that was Lord Death, which they themselves had unwittingly revived by chaining poor Potter to Azkaban's well of power. But such matters brought no feelings or emotions to Lord Death – not any more. All emotions had been consumed by the ritual and feelings had no places in the icy logic of his new way of thinking. He was but the process that had always been there, given new purpose and given a human drive. The only thing that had brought any emotion since that day had been the vainglorious death of Albus 'too many damned middle-names' Dumbledore.

The old keester had actually tried to control him, by gathering the three Hallows. Unfortunately for old Dumbie, the Hallows had been a construct made to chain the old Death. They had no connection to the new Lord Death whatsoever. And the realization of this on Dumbledore's face, before Lord Death had taken him in his cold embrace and kissed the life out of Albus in a horrifying simile of the Dementor's Kiss, had been a glorious sight. And when the cadaver hit the ground below, it had been with a sickeningly satisfying crunch. And the glorious pandemonium when he proceeded to lock down Hogwarts' wards and claim each adult live inside had been... satisfying. But after that, it had become a mere chore, a duty to be upheld – before he could have his just rewards, which was eternal peace.

He was nearing the warded compound, when a presence made itself felt. Slowing to a standstill, Lord Death dispassionately stared at the enormous owl-prints that slowly impressed themselves upon the flat snow between him and the compound. And when a shimmering figure slowly coalesced before him, Lord Death immediately felt Fate's influence on this situation. The bitch always did like to meddle in his life and afterlife. The metadata of the entity was wrong for this place and he knew instantly this was a thing from beyond the Veil of Creation. “You're unwanted here, stranger.” He spoke, with a gravely voice that held the echo of a tomb in its timbre.

A squealing voice, high-pitched and almost below and above the human range of hearing, chuckled. “Oh, I rather think I'm right where I want to be. And if She didn't approve, I wouldn't even have gotten halfway – you know this, Thanatos. Or would you rather I call you by your mortal life's name, Harry?” Slowly stepping between the membranes of this reality's dimensions, Stolas felt his form coalesce into a form durable enough for the mortal coil. It was altogether a very different situation from when he was summoned by his ward, after all.

“No, don't answer that.” Stolas said, holding a hand to silence the force of nature before him – who knew that Stolas would be doing that, and held his silence from the start. He was trying to read the flow of time around the demon, but found difficulty due to Stolas' external origins. “Now, Lord Death, I come with a proposal. You can decide if you wanna accept said proposal until after you've finished your job here – though I have to warn you that the Wixen here have stolen nukes and are willing to utilize them in a desperate last-ditch effort to undo you by combing the nukes with a ritual related to the Hundred-Souls Binding. I thought you might wanna know, just in case.”

And as Stolas shot a toothy grin at Lord Death, Harry puzzled over the fact that Stolas had managed a toothy grin with nothing but a beak. Shaking his head lightly, Lord Death focussed on his task at hand. This wayward demon was just a temporary distraction – he had a duty to perform, demons be damned. He knew that the Wixen were desperate. And in their desperation, they became tragically predictable. Hell, even Fate was just openly telling him what was about to happen lately. Each possible future action by the Wixens had become a neon-sign in the time-streams of the immediate future. It was embarrassing. These were the people that had somehow managed to trap him a scant three years before.

“Bother me later, owl. I have no use for your tricks right now.” Lord Death all but growled, bowling aside the demon as he made to cross the wards – before the demon took his arm in a vice-like grip and held him back. “Now, is that any way to talk to a friend, Thanatos?” Stolas warned, with a voice as smooth as silk and cold as ice. Lord Death did not shudder – his body lacked the nerve-activity for the unconscious actions. Instead, he merely turned to face the demon – before punching him right out of his position between the dimensional membranes. The demon instantly faded, though Lord Death knew logically that he'd be back within the hour. It would take Stolas that long to reorient his stray atoms back to their former position. It didn't hurt, but it sure was a buggerance. As Lord Death knew all too well from personal experience.

But thought needed little physical constitution to be understood and intercepted by higher natural processes. “How rude, you rube! Would you truly not even listen to my proposal?” Stolas chided, with some disdain. “No, owl, I will not. As I said, bother me later. Got stuff to do.” Lord Death replied, crossing the wards and tearing them quickly to shreds before replacing them with his own. A Caterwauling Alarm began sounding in the compound, and a flurry of activity started up as people awoke. It was just a job, Harry thought, as he neared the first cabin and broke apart the bonds between the atoms that made up the walls. Each obstacle turned to molecular dust before him and Lord Death took his first victim within seconds, a middle aged witch with terror in her eyes and a sneer on her lips. She tried to resist, firing a few Killing Curses at him, but her heart just wasn't in it and they bounced off ineffectually. And soon, her heart wasn't in her at all. It lay a meter from her body, as Lord Death reaped the soul with mechanical duty, casting it into the Beyond and moving unto his next victim. He would take his time – he had seven days after all, and there were but a few hundred souls on the continent. Twenty per day should suffice, he ruminated as stunned all the fleeing bodies he could see, moving on to his second victim. He would claim those he stunned now and haunt the others in the white wastes, before moving unto the second compound a few hundred miles west.

And so he strode on, bare feet in the snow, as the wind howled around him, drowning out the screams of the doomed and dying...

**Author's Note:**

> This is gonna be a very sporadic fic, only updated when I feel like writing more and when there's some good feedback :D
> 
> Stolas, in terms of general appearance & personality, is going to be based on Helluvaboss' version of Prince Stolas - but with a bitter mean streak added to a volatile nature.


End file.
